


What Am I Even Doing?

by GeekishChic



Series: Personal Fanfic Friday Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Donderson?, F/M, Fanfic Friday Personal Challenge, Philly?, Pre-The Reichenbach Fall, Rated For A Tiny Bit Of Language, Romance, Sanderson?, Title Based On Author's Actual Thinking The Whole Time, What Do You Mean Sally's Not Actually A Bitchbot?, What Is This Ship Called Anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why the hell was Sally Donovan even bothering? The sex was good and all but that's not all there is. In more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Am I Even Doing?

**Author's Note:**

> I got:  
> 1\. Sally and Anderson  
> 2\. Sally comes to her senses and wonders why she's letting Anderson "rub bits with her"  
> 3\. A brand new pair of BBQ tongs
> 
> I'm not kidding  
> My friend has apparently been waiting all week to spring these on me.  
> Hoo boy.

 

 

 

He  _was_  good, she had to admit that much. Like,  _very_  good. Astounding, really. He knew exactly where to touch, when, and how much pressure. Sex with a doctor had its perks. Maybe that was why The Freak got himself one. The way Philip did things was enough to make her forget about his wife every single time. Well, soon to be ex-wife now. 

 

There had been flirting at work, but it was just how things went down in a place that was very much still a boy's club. A woman had to have thick skin to survive and claw her way up the promotional ladder. But that wasn't actually how it all started. There was of course alcohol involved that first time, and not copious amounts either. Other people were supposed to be there, but Lestrade had just gotten back in good with his wife(again), Thompson had a family emergency, and her brother blew her off last minute. Wanker. So Anderson was the only one to show. They bonded over Sherlock Holmes' horrific behaviour and how Lestrade just let him run around like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum in a sweet shop. She'd never seen him laugh like that. It was... unburdened. The alcohol had loosened her tongue enough for her to tell him so. He admitted he hadn't laughed like that in a long time. And that she had a beautiful smile. And lovely hair. And was a tigress at work. The additional 'Ands' brought them closer and closer together until they were swallowed up in a night of the most spectacular sex she'd ever had.

 

They always kept it behind closed doors, a sort of silent agreement about going nowhere anyone would be suspicious of anything. There were never any covert trysts in the caretaker's cupboard at the Yard, or secret  _rendez-vous_  at hotels out of town. They were mostly at hers, sometimes at his when his wife was out of town, almost always after a trying day, which was often when it came to their line of work. 

 

And it wasn't like she didn't try to convince herself to stop, that it was wrong of course and that she'd tell him the very next time she saw him outside of work. But then he'd focus those giant puppy-dog eyes on her and the 'Ands' would start up again; a mesmerizing litany of how clever and strong and beautiful she was. Then it was always, 'This one last time' that had happened about a dozen times already.

 

That was until it really was the last time.

 

When she'd gotten home a week ago, she'd wearily opened the door of her flat to find it virtually destroyed. Listening for signs of the intruder, she heard nothing, saw no fleeting movement, only a pungent odor, as if someone had taken a shower in perfume. She grabbed the nightstick she kept in the umbrella stand by the door anyway, venturing forward to gingerly pick her way through strewn papers and broken lamps. She saw into the kitchen area where nearly every dish in her cupboards was shattered, and there was even a bit of what looked like blood on some of the pieces. That would help. Attempting not to destroy potential evidence, she slowly made her way toward the bedroom, adjusting her grip on the baton. It was thankfully empty of other people going by the streetlamp outside the smashed in window leading to the fire escape. Point of entry, then. She found the light switch in order to turn on the overhead and give the place a proper examination. Scrawled on the blank wall over her scratched headboard and shredded bedclothes, in red lipstick(Crimson Peak, it was called), were declarations of someone's opinion of her. 'WHORE' and 'SLUT' were the tamer ones. She put her phone back in her pocket. No reason to call 999. She knew exactly who'd done it. 

 

Nothing was missing as far as she could see, which was quite far being that it was only the one bedroom. She checked her safe, her jewelry box, and other hiding places to find them, as expected, untouched. All of her make-up was even destroyed and her perfume bottles lay shattered on the bathroom tile floor, hence the smell. She brought out her phone again and dialed her boss first. She told him that it wasn't an emergency, but a team needed to be sent to hers in order to gather evidence. Also he was to make absolutely sure that he didn't tell Anderson. She phoned the latter man right after and warned him to stay away from her in anything but an official capacity.  

 

Sally was told to take a couple of paid days off but, standing in Lestrade's office the very next day, she told her boss that she refused on the grounds that she had basically a whole flat's worth of household furnishings to replace and so couldn't afford losing the overtime. She'd had to borrow a couple of things from her friend with whom she'd spent the night after the police on the case obtained her statement and collected a bit of evidence so that she could at least clear a path without harming any potential information they could gather. Greg questioned her mental state and she quickly replied that she did as well, but that work was literally all she had now. Mrs. Anderson was in a holding cell at that very moment, and it took all of her strength not to go down and beg to be left alone with her for two minutes. Sally confessed loudly to having to use her only pair of barbecue tongs in order to remove some of the things the woman had  _pissed_   _on._  She then begged him not to say 'I told you so', and spent the next two weeks avoiding Anderson.

 

The first week was easier, as their agreement not to carry on at work made staying away from him more of a habit. She couldn't block his number as they needed to be able to remain in touch on mutual cases, but she refused his calls unless he texted first to confirm it was business. She'd hang up whenever he attempted to get off topic and didn't return his texted pleas to just talk to him and let him explain except for one time. But, he crossed the line by saying it had to be done face to face, and so she returned to maintaining radio silence unless it was official police business.

 

By the end of the second week, however, she was nearly tearing her hair out in frustration both work-related and sexual. She'd taken to using different break rooms throughout the building in order to avoid Anderson, and had decided to do a flat share with her friend until she found something new, so she would no longer even have the same address. Philip- _Anderson_  didn't know this woman and so had no idea where she was staying. He didn't follow her around, but when they did have to see each other, he'd make horrible moon eyes at her until she'd suck her teeth and walk off. He hadn't shaved in what seemed like the entire time she was able to keep away from him, but he still did his job as she did hers. Small miracles, and all that.

 

After another trying case in which she had to endure both him  _and_  The Freak along with his pet doctor, she retreated to the disabled loo on fifth. It was private and almost never used, so she found it a nice mini holiday spot when she wasn't able to go home. She stared at herself in the mirror, convincing herself that those absolutely were not tears. She was just tired and angry and some dust had gotten into her eyes. And nose. That's why it was running. And throat. Because those were coughs, not sobs. She remedied the situation by washing her face and reapplying a combination of brand new and borrowed make up. Looking good was feeling better, right? With a final sigh, she tossed everything back into her handbag and opened the door, finding herself pushed backward again with a hand over her mouth. However gentle it was, instinct had her lashing out before she even fully saw who it was, breaking the grip and getting her assailant on the floor with his arm twisted behind him and a knee in his back.

 

"What in bloody fuck is wrong with you?!" she shouted. You should know better than to attack a police officer. Especially a female one!"

 

"Please! Sally! Ow! I just wanted to talk to you. You wouldn't listen, I just need you to listen for one minute. Just sixty seconds. That's all. You can spare sixty seconds, can't you? Please!"

 

"Fine. I'm listening."

 

"If we could do this standing, that would-" Sally ground her knee into his back once more to make her point, the understanding of it indicated by the pained groan, then got up. She couldn't help but be pleased with the blood from the split lip he endured hitting the ground. With a brief smirk, she crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow as he snatched a paper towel from the dispenser in order to staunch it. He'd shaved and gotten a hair cut. She did kind of like the beard, if she was honest. It only wanted a trim, but, she figured, he was trying to portray a certain look that didn't include the extra facial hair. His blue checked shirt and solid blue jumper indicated that he was already on his way home. Also, that colour made his eyes pop, and therefore she needed to stop thinking about it immediately.

 

"I'm really very sorry for all that has happened. I just wanted to tell you that. Face to face. Lauren and I... we never communicated. I could never talk with her the way we could. Not just about work but about everything." Unbidden, one of the many fond memories of them laughing over crap telly and eating ice cream in bed came to her. She shook her head to release it. "And it hit me. Believe it or not, the biggest mistake wasn't the cheating bit, but the fact that we never gave each other a chance to work anything out. By then it was too late, because by then, there was you. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry, and that I don't expect anything from you when I tell you this next thing."

 

"Which is?" She managed to make her anticipation sound biting and was proud of herself. Of course she was stronger than that. Not going to just jump back into his bed now that he was conveniently free. They were over. Even if there was a small chance for anything to happen again ever, it would not only be after a long while, but she'd never really be sure he wouldn't step out on her as well. Even though what they had seemed so very different from everything else and at the same time classic, enduring. That thought had to go too.

 

"The day she trashed your flat was the day I'd served her with papers." Sally's jaw almost dropped in shock but she managed to keep it contained. "I'd been planning on leaving her for months. I couldn't even stand to touch her anymore. I didn't actually have sex with her again after the first time you and I... And it had been months before that." He ran a hand through straight chocolate locks the way she missed doing.

 

"I'm pretty sure it's been way longer than a minute," she spat, clenching her jaw to keep it from trembling.

 

"Right," he said. "Well, thanks for listening anyway. Oh, and here." He gathered his dropped work bag and lifted the brown leather flap in order to go into it, pulling out a long, pretty red and silver box in which their favourite chocolates came. Yeah they had a lot in common, but so what? "I picked these up that same day as part of my apology after seeing you in Lestrade's office. Figure you'd need them but never got a chance to give them to you and I know you'd just bin it if I'd left it on your desk without explaining things." She took the box but continued to glare at him. "Right. Bye. Thanks again for hearing me out." With that he was gone and she let out a breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding. She closed the door again, remaining inside. No matter what happened next, at least she got chocolates out of the deal. She opened the box, ready to indulge right away, but halted, heart pounding, dark eyes flicking back to the door through which he'd left.

 

Instead of the treats she actually deserved as a reward for not giving in or committing murder(which, if it had been realized just how many times that day it had been a very near thing, she'd already be in cuffs), there sat a pair of brand new barbecue tongs.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know this one is pretty short and perhaps a little boring(or scary because Anderson feels), but it was kind of the most therapeutic one for me so far. For me to be able to humanize Sally as she showed little remorse in her part of the whole Sherlock thing, I had to figure out a way that would sort of explain how she was, in a way that would make it sort of okay(?)that she didn't seem like she cared. I still think she needs to be put in her place properly on screen though. Maybe fight Molly. I'd pay money to see that.


End file.
